I was dragged from my warm bed
and Katya’s warmer arms and belly,
hauled out by a recruiting sergeant
who copped a feel of her beautiful breasts,
the fat bastard daring me to do something
so he could kick the crap out of me,
then rape Katya at his leisure.
He shouted I should be proud to serve
against Ukrainian Nazis, who were killing
us Russians in numbers not seen
since Americans slaughtered all of their Blacks.
If you argue with Putin’s henchmen,
a bullet to the back of the head if you’re lucky;
if not, poison turns your veins into barbed wire.
After two days of so-called “Training,”
they assigned me to a unit that,
we were told, would take Kyiv in a day:
“The Ukrainians are born cowards,
even more than the Jews we had to rescue
during the Great Patriotic War!
This will be a walk in Gorky Park,
only more fun for real men to prove
their devotion to the Motherland.”
When we did meet “the enemy,”
two of our guys were cut down
by an invisible sniper; we panic-fired,
then ran in the direction we thought,
hoped, was back to Russia.
Let generals fight for The Little Horseman,
but what have Ukrainians ever done to me?
